James Jenkins - The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories. Volume 1

‘It’s really delicious!’

‘I told you, it’ll make you forget your cares, you’ll see.’

Julian took another greedy mouthful. Suddenly he noticed there was no one in the kitchen.

‘You don’t have a cook?’

‘I don’t need one. I prepare everything very early, before opening.’

‘Then I congratulate you, the coffee is more than fresh, the pie is a delicacy . . .’

‘Thank you very much,’ she said, smiling again.

He continued eating that magnificent pie. He looked at his watch. Diana would arrive at any moment. He wanted to ask for the check, but the woman wasn’t there, she’d prob­ably gone into the kitchen. He took out his wallet and opened the paper the old man had given him to see how much he had to pay. There wasn’t a single number on it, only scrawled in nervous handwriting: ‘Whatever you do, leave this place. And don’t eat the pie.’

Julian froze. He looked around. All men, all with hand luggage, like someone going away for a weekend, and all of them eating the same pie as him. He eavesdropped on their conversations: they were all talking about the magnificent woman they had met. The descriptions varied; for one she was blond, for another brunette, further on she was tall and thin and for the person beside him she was small and chubby, but to all of them she was the perfect woman. They were all there waiting for her, for she had made a date with them in that remote place.

Julian thought about getting up, but it was already very late. All of a sudden he only wished to stay there, eating that delicious pie. What’s more, he had to wait for Diana, who would surely be arriving soon.

The woman approached him again at seeing his plate empty.

‘Here’s another slice. I’m sure you want it, isn’t that right, Julian?’

He looked her in the eyes and found himself looking into Diana’s gaze.

It probably shouldn’t surprise anyone that the same country that gave us Día de Muertos and the films of Guillermo del Toro should have an active horror literature scene, but for some reason we don’t seem to hear much about it. A partial list of important contemporary Mexican writers in the genre would have to include names like Amparo Dávila, Alberto Chimal, and Raquel Castro, all of whom have had work published in English, and F. G. Haghenbeck and Cecilia Eudave, whose horror fiction seems only to be available in Spanish. But there was one name in particular we kept coming across on every list of the best Mexican horror writers: Bernardo Esquinca . Esquinca ( b. 1972) is a prolific author of horror novels and short stories and has also co-­edited two volumes of fantastic tales from Mexico City. His works often blend the genres of horror or weird fiction with the crime novel, a formula that has proved successful with both readers and critics ( he was awarded the Premio Nacional de Novela Negra in 2017 ) . If you’ve ever been frustrated that people in other countries get to read things before you do because of the long lag time to translate and publish them in English, you’re about to get a little bit of revenge. The following story, taken from the author’s forthcoming collection El libro de los dioses (The Book of the Gods), hasn’t even appeared in Spanish yet, meaning this is its first appearance anywhere.

Señor Ligotti showed up at the end of a conference. As usual, Esteban signed some books, listened to his readers with studied politeness and gave quick, concise tips to the ones aspiring to become writers. When he was preparing to leave the auditorium, with that mixture of satisfaction and emptiness he felt after every presentation – yes, he had readers, but he always wanted more – he saw him seated in the last row, with his red canvas bag, the bowtie in place of a necktie, the snow-­white beard, with the tips of his mustache ending in points, in the style of some figures from the Revolution, and a walking stick with a silver-­plated handle.

Señor Ligotti rose to his feet with an unexpected agility, extended his hand in a vigorous manner – Esteban could feel the hardness of several rings pressing against his skin – and spoke to him without beating about the bush.

‘I’d like to make you a business proposition. Will you let me buy you a coffee?’

Normally Esteban would have refused. He didn’t like chatting with people from the audience beyond what was necessary; talking with strangers was something that made him uncomfortable. He would often receive invitations to workshops, reading groups, and even to bars, which he rejected while trying to hide his irritation. This time he had the perfect excuse: his wife was in the final stage of pregnancy and he had to get home as soon as possible. Maybe that’s what made him accept, the need to distract himself from the stress of the imminent childbirth, from the anxiety that didn’t let him concentrate to read or write.

Esteban soon found himself seated in a private booth at a Vips cafeteria with this elderly eccentric, who seemed plucked off a theater stage and who at the same time had an impeccable bearing and an overwhelming dignity. He was spending time with a stranger. Having kids changes you , was the phrase he’d gotten used to hearing since Adela had gotten pregnant.

Señor Ligotti fixed him with an inquisitive look.

‘How are things going? Does one make a good living writing?’

A typical question. Before responding, Esteban glanced at the book display stands next to the cash register, filled with bestsellers. Every time he went in a Vips, he lamented that his novels didn’t form part of that club: the books that were sold in bookstores, but also in supermarkets, shops, restaurants.

‘I make a living from what I write, but it could be better.’

‘For all of us it could be better. Worse too. It’s all about knowing how to take advantage of opportunities. Do you own your own home?’

‘No. No matter how much I save, I never have enough.’

Señor Ligotti took a sip of his coffee and set it back down on the table. Then he moved his ring-­filled fingers, making them chime against the mug.

‘Si non oscillas, noli tintinnare . . .’

‘What?’

‘It’s an old saying, as old as I am. If you don’t swing, you don’t ring, like bells. I’ve been one of your readers for a while: I think you’re a talented writer, that you deserve better luck. I know you’re obsessed with the Colonia Juárez neighborhood, since many of your stories take place there. I own an apartment in the Berlín building, which I’m putting up for sale. Are you interested?’

Esteban looked at his beer: he had hardly touched it. On the other hand, Señor Ligotti was going for his third coffee. Maybe he didn’t sleep?

‘I’ve rented my whole life. I dream of buying a house . . .’

‘How much do you have?’

‘Not even a million pesos.’

Señor Ligotti stroked his beard with his ring-­laden hand. The one on his pinky finger had the logo of the National University: a shield borne by two birds of prey.

‘Give me what you have and it’s yours. I’d rather that someone who values old buildings live there and care for it. I have a great fondness for that apartment.’

Señor Ligotti’s eyes glazed over. He paused to let out a long sigh.

‘I lived there with my wife. She died last year.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘The money isn’t an issue for me. It’s a sentimental thing: I can’t leave all those memories to just anyone.’

The old man stood up and placed a card on the table. Before leaving, he said:

‘Come and see me at my office. And bring your lawyer, if that makes you feel more comfortable.’